MonsterGirl’s 150 Days of Classic Horror #32 Castle of Blood (Danze Macabra) 1964

CASTLE OF BLOOD 1964

BRIDES OF HORROR – Scream Queens of the 1960s! – Part 4: The Dark Goddess-This Dark Mirror

Danza Macabra / Castle of Blood (1964) “I Was Prepared To Spend The Night With Horrible Ghosts Instead I Find You!”

Castle of Blood (1964), also known as Danza Macabra or Dance Macabre, is a gothic horror film directed by Antonio Margheriti. The film is considered one of his masterpieces. I would agree. Margheriti, an Italian filmmaker known for his versatility across genres, made significant contributions to Italian Gothic horror cinema in the 1960s, with such films as The Long Hair of Death 1964, Horror Castle (1963), Also known as The Virgin of Nuremberg, and And God Said to Cain (1970), which blended Gothic horror elements with the Western genre,

Antonio Margheriti and Mario Bava had a complex relationship marked by both rivalry and shared influence within the Italian genre film industry. While both directors were pioneers in Italian horror and science fiction cinema, their paths crossed notably during the production of Naked You Die (1968). Originally intended to be directed by Bava, the producers brought in Margheriti as a partner, which led to Bava abandoning the project altogether. Margheriti ultimately took over as director, using Bava’s script with minimal changes.

I still remember those late-night New York TV classical horror offerings as a kid, where I’d sneak in some forbidden viewing. Castle of Blood was one of the first to really cast its atmospheric spell on me.

It stars Barbara Steele, whose ability to combine ravishing beauty with the uncanny sensuality with the inclusion of subtle eroticism and hints of lesbianism added to the film’s charged atmosphere, which was bold for its time. The cast also includes Georges Rivière, Margarete Robsahm, and Arturo Dominici.

Italian actor Silvano Tranquilli portrays Edgar Allan Poe. His character plays a minor but pivotal role as Poe engages in a conversation with journalist Alan Foster (played by Georges Rivière) in a shadowy London pub, setting the stage for the wager that drives the story forward. The story follows Alan Foster, a journalist who accepts a bet to spend the night in a supposedly haunted castle on All Souls’ Eve. As the night progresses, Foster encounters a series of ghostly inhabitants, including the enigmatic Elisabeth Blackwood (Barbara Steele) and the possessive Julia Alert (Margarete Robsahm). The ghosts are doomed to relive their tragic deaths annually, and Foster finds himself enmeshed in a web of supernatural intrigue:

Through his use of light and shadow, Margheriti crafts a haunting atmosphere through his use of black-and-white cinematography, which emphasizes the shadowy, cobweb-filled gloomy architecture, and the castle’s interiors provide an inherently spooky backdrop for the story. The ghostly apparitions tap into deep-seated psychological fears. The ghosts enable creative storytelling techniques like non-linear narratives, unreliable narrators, and twist endings, for example, the one that washes over you at the end of Castle of Blood. The last image stuck with me for quite a long time.

Riz Ortolani’s (Mondo Cane 1962: His main title song, “More,” won a Grammy and was nominated for an Oscar, and the international hit The Yellow Rolls-Royce 1964) musical score contributes significantly to the film’s unsettling world. Ortolani was an Italian composer, conductor, and orchestrator with a prolific career spanning over fifty years, during which he scored more than 200 films and television programs. He was particularly known for his work in genre films, including horror and Giallo, making him a fitting choice for the gothic atmosphere of Castle of Blood. The atmospheric organ score further enhances the film’s eerie mood, contributing significantly to the overall sense of unease and otherworldly dread and a genuinely creepy miasma.

Castle of Blood is also notable for its exploration of themes of life, death, and the blurred lines between the two. The film’s narrative unfolds through a series of flashbacks and reenactments, revealing the tragic love triangle that led to the ghosts’ demise. As Foster delves deeper into the castle’s mysteries, he finds himself drawn to Elisabeth (Steele), unaware of her true nature until it’s too late.

The film’s use of black-and-white cinematography and the intense saturation of monochromatic black is particularly striking. The pure blackness surrounding the characters creates a sense of isolation and dread, forcing us to focus on facial expressions and creating an effect similar to Gothic portrait photography.

The pacing is deliberately slow, allowing the fuse to burn gradually. Margheriti has never been afraid to let scenes linger, creating a dreamlike quality that continues to obscure the line between reality and the supernatural. The film’s Gothic visuals and erotic undertones have ensured that Castle of Blood remains a cult classic in Italian horror cinema.

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MonsterGirl’s 150 Days of Horror #31 Carnival of Souls 1962

CARNIVAL OF SOULS 1962

Carnival of Souls (1962): Criterion 60s Eerie Cinema: That Haunting Feeling

Carnival of Souls (1962) is a uniquely different experience in psychological horror that has earned its place as a cult film – known for its eerie atmosphere and innovative filmmaking techniques. Directed by Herk Harvey, the film was his only feature-length production, as he primarily worked on industrial and educational films for the Centron Corporation in Lawrence, Kansas. The film’s genesis occurred when Harvey, driving back from California, was inspired by the sight of the abandoned Saltair Pavilion near Salt Lake City. This location became the centerpiece for the film’s haunting climax.

Working with a minuscule budget of $33,000, Harvey employed guerrilla filmmaking techniques and assembled a small crew of just five people, including himself.

The story follows Mary Henry (Candace Hilligoss), a young church organist who survives a car accident and becomes haunted by strange visions and a mysterious figure known as “the Man” (portrayed by Harvey himself in an uncredited role). The film focuses on Mary’s journey through a dreamlike purgatory as she is trapped between two worlds, with one of them – the nightmarish one – catching up with her.

Hilligoss, who had trained with Lee Strasberg, was discovered by Harvey in New York and cast as the lead for approximately $2,000. The film’s production was a testament to resourcefulness. Shot on location in Lawrence, Kansas, and Salt Lake City, the crew often had to work around limitations. For instance, the pivotal bridge scene at the beginning of the film was shot in Lecompton, Kansas, with the filmmakers agreeing to repair the bridge’s damaged rails for just $12.

Carnival of Souls is notable for its atmospheric organ score by Gene Moore, which contributes significantly to the film’s unsettling mood. The movie’s visual style was influenced by European art-house directors like Ingmar Bergman and Jean Cocteau, with Harvey aiming to create “the look of a Bergman and the feel of a Cocteau.” The movie explores themes of existentialism and the boundary between life and death, creating a sense of unease with its surrealistic nature and exploration of purgatorial despair, which set it apart from typical horror films of its time in the early 1960s.

What makes Carnival of Souls continue to stand out is its innovative filmmaking; despite its anemic budget, Harvey created a film with a unique visual style and an organically eerie and growing sense of dread using existing locations. Also, the atmospheric sound design aided by the haunting organ score by Gene Moore is a significant element in creating its unsettling atmosphere, and the minimalist use of sound, focusing primarily on the organ, adds to the film’s hypnotic power.

Despite its initial limited release and distribution challenges, Carnival of Souls has since gained recognition for its influential cinematography and foreboding atmosphere. It has inspired filmmakers such as George A. Romero and David Lynch. Its proto-Lynchian qualities in dialogue and conflict have contributed to its lasting impact and continue to be celebrated at film festivals and Halloween screenings.

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MonsterGirl’s 150 Days of Classic Horror #30 The Crazies 1973

THE CRAZIES 1973

George A. Romero’s The Crazies (1973) is a thought-provoking horror film that blends societal critique with visceral storytelling, showcasing Romero’s penchant for using genre cinema to explore political and cultural anxieties. Romero, known as the “Godfather of Horror,” had already revolutionized the genre – the art of horror filmmaking – with his breakthrough Night of the Living Dead (1968), which established his ability to use horror as a vehicle for social commentary. He introduced a modern brand of deconstructed horror no one had seen before, incorporating a raw intensity through allegory that resonated with audiences. It certainly shook me to my core. I saw it during its theatrical release and could barely watch the screen without squinting through my hand or looking away completely. Zombies eating raw or BBQed intestines still make me want to wretch!

Romero’s background significantly influenced the creation of The Crazies in several ways: the director’s early exposure to film through frequent subway trips to Manhattan to rent and view film reels likely contributed to his innovative approach to filmmaking. His early passion for cinema, particularly his interest in the visually experimental film The Tales of Hoffmann, inspired him to explore the power of visual media and experiment with the medium.

His experience shooting short films and TV commercials after graduating from college in 1960 honed his skills in visual storytelling. Leveraging his background in experimental filmmaking, commercial work, and socially conscious horror influenced Romero to create the visceral and impactful imagery in The Crazies, pushing the boundaries that powerfully critique authority and explore the fragility of social order through the horror genre.

The Crazies, though less commercially successful at its release, has since gained recognition as one of his most ambitious works, reflecting the turbulent social climate of 1970s America. The film is described as his most politically paranoid work, reflecting a deep distrust of government institutions and their potential for harmful overreach.

Romero imbued The Crazies with sharp political commentary as it follows the chaos that ensues when a military biological weapon, code-named “Trixie,” contaminates the water supply of a small Pennsylvania town, driving the residents into homicidal madness or killing the townspeople outright. As martial law is imposed, soldiers and scientists struggle to contain the outbreak, but their efforts only worsen the crisis and the violence and paranoia that breaks loose. Romero examines the interplay between individual humanity and systemic failures. This idea blurs the line between the infected and uninfected, suggesting societal breakdown reveals pre-existing moral decay rather than creating it. One of the film’s central themes is the inherent violence within human nature. Romero portrays the infected townspeople not as monstrous creatures but as ordinary individuals whose latent psychosis is unleashed—a chilling reminder that madness and brutality are intrinsic aspects of humanity.

The story focuses on a group of survivors—including Vietnam veterans David and Clank—who attempt to escape both the infected townspeople and the oppressive military presence. The cast includes Lane Carroll, Will McMillan, Harold Wayne Jones, and cult favorite Lynn Lowry (Cronenberg’s Shivers 1975), whose performances capture the desperation and paranoia of individuals caught in a collapsing society.

Another major theme of The Crazies is the critique of authority and institutional incompetence. The military’s response to the crisis is marked by paranoia, bureaucratic dysfunction, and dehumanization. This anti-establishment stance echoes real-world anxieties of the era, particularly those stemming from events like the Vietnam War, civil unrest, and incidents such as the military using violence against civilians, as in the Kent State shootings.

Romero uses this portrayal to highlight how systems of power and institutions like the military brutal containment prioritize control over compassion or justice, reflecting broader disillusionment with government and military failures during the Vietnam War era. These themes resonate with 1970s audiences grappling with mistrust of authority following events like Kent State and Watergate, but also beyond their historical context, offering a timeless reflection on how fear and authoritarianism can amplify crises rather than resolve them. Soldiers are depicted not as saviors but as oppressive agents whose faceless uniforms and aggressive tactics alienate them from the very civilians they aim to protect.

He also delves into the problems inherent in power structures, presenting the government’s handling of the outbreak as equally monstrous as the infection itself. The “Trixie task force” embodies a cold utilitarianism, treating human lives as expendable in pursuit of abstract national security goals.

By incorporating imagery reminiscent of these historical moments—such as military violence against civilians—the film taps into the collective fear of a society unraveling under its own weight. Thematically, The Crazies explores issues of dehumanization, loss of autonomy, and dissolution. The infected townspeople symbolize not only physical contagion but also psychological and societal collapse.

Despite its modest production scale, The Crazies is ambitious in scope and execution. Romero’s use of multiple characters and locations creates a sense of widespread chaos that mirrors societal fragmentation. The film’s sardonic humor further underscores its critique of human folly in the face of disaster, making it both unsettling and darkly satirical.

Finally, The Crazies explores the fragility of social order. The chaos in Evans City symbolizes how quickly societal norms can collapse under pressure. Romero contrasts moments of fleeting humanity—such as soldiers showing empathy—with scenes of looting, violence, and destruction, emphasizing how crises erode moral boundaries. Through its low-budget aesthetic and grim narrative, The Crazies presents a harrowing critique of human nature and institutional power. In retrospect, The Crazies stands as an underrated gem within Romero’s oeuvre—a film that not only entertains but also challenges viewers to confront uncomfortable truths about power, responsibility, and humanity’s capacity for self-destruction.

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The Curious Charisma of Roddy McDowall: A Life in Art and Film

Film critic Leonard Maltin: “Roddy McDowall’s career spanned more than six decades, and he managed to remain relevant and respected throughout. His performances were always compelling, and his contributions to cinema are invaluable.”

Roddy McDowall certainly had a distinctive presence: He always seemed to exude this uncanny youthful appearance. Even as an adult, McDowall was described as being “perpetually youthful.”

“McDowall was sharp-faced, clearly intelligent, chilly in his pride, and a kid who believed in masking his feelings (just like real kids). There are scenes in the film (How Green Was My Valley) in which older actors seem to learn restraint and stealth from the child. He was so emphatically honest in that film, and a kid who sometimes looked like a little old man (it was observed in life how, close to 70, Roddy still had “a child’s open face’).”– David Thomson for The Independent:

In 1941, The Detroit Free Press had this to say: “The child marvel of Hollywood right now is 12-year-old Roddy McDowall who arrived here from England a year ago. The public hasn’t had a really good look at him, but he has already been boosted to stardom. If you saw Manhunt, that was a small part; it was just a warm-up for the role in How Green Was My Valley, which Fox had in mind when they signed him. It is in this, his second film over here, that Roddy is becoming an American screen personality in his own right.”

“I enjoyed being in movies when I was a boy. As a child, you’re not acting- you believe. Ah, if an adult could only act as a child does with that insane, playing-at-toy-soldiers concentration!” – Roddy McDowall

Roddy McDowall was a highly prolific and versatile actor whose career spanned nearly six decades, encompassing a variety of genres in film, television, and radio. He began his acting journey as a child in 1938 and continued to be a prominent figure in Hollywood until his death in 1998. Throughout his extensive career, McDowall appeared in a wide range of classic films, beginning with 20th Century Fox’s 1941 thriller Manhunt directed by Fritz Lang and including his breakout role in How Green Was My Valley (1941).

Maureen O’Hara and Roddy McDowall in How Green Was My Valley 1941.

This is where he met and became lifelong friends with actress Maureen O’Hara. After Fox’s Best Picture winner, they cast him in the war film Confirm and Deny 1941. The following year, he played Tyrone Power as a young boy in Son of Fury: The Story of Benjamin Blake 1942.

Also, in 1942, they gave him top billing in On the Sunny Side, and he was given co-star credit alongside Monty Woolie in The Pied Piper, playing an orphan of the war. With McDowall’s success sealed, MGM borrowed the fine young actor to star in Lassie Come Home (1943). The studio held onto him and gave him the leading role in The White Cliffs of Dover in 1944.

Anne Baxter, Monty Woolley, and Roddy McDowall in The Pied Piper 1942.

Roddy McDowall was voted the number 4 ‘Star of Tomorrow’ in 1944, and Fox gave him another starring role in Thunderhead – Son of Flicka 1945.

Early on, he turned to the theater, starring in the title role of Young Woodley in the summer stock production in West Port, Connecticut, in July 1946. With his love of working on the stage, Orson Welles cast him in his production of Macbeth, where he played Malcolm. In 1948, he took on the same role in the film version.

By now, it was the late 1940s & 1950s, and he signed with Monogram Pictures, a low-budget studio that embraced recognizable stars to make two pictures a year. McDowall made seven films with them and worked as associate producer for director Phil Karlson’s Rocky 1948, a story about a boy and his dog. This was followed by the adaptation of Robert Louis Stevenson’s Kidnapped in 1948, Black Midnight directed by Budd Boetticher, Killer Shark, Big Timber in 1950, and The Steel Fist in 1952.

Lyn Thomas and Roddy McDowall in Black Midnight 1950.

Fans appreciate his appearance in the 70s disaster film The Poseidon Adventure (1972) and Overboard (1987). In the latter part of his life, he became a sought-after voice actor, lending his talents to animated projects such as A Bug’s Life (1998) and the popular television series Pinky and the Brain (1995-1998). Notably, McDowall also received acclaim on stage, winning a Tony Award for his supporting role in The Fighting Cock. McDowall worked with some of the most prominent actors in the industry, including Elizabeth Taylor, Gregory Peck, Orson Welles, Charlton Heston, Angela Lansbury, Kim Hunter, Vincent Price, Donald Crisp, Maureen O’Hara, Irene Dunne, Rock Hudson, Bette Davis, Jennifer Jones. Maurice Evans, Ruth Gordon, Natalie Wood, Lauren Bacall, Ava Gardner, and Rex Harrison. His career also included working with directors like Joseph L. Mankiewicz, John Ford, Jack Smight, Franklin J. Schaffner, and John Huston. His ability to transition from a child star to a respected adult performer set him apart in the industry.

Roddy McDowall possessed a fascinating duality; the contrast between his youthful looks and worldly-wise poise defined his unique charm and quiet intensity.

He was noted for his expressive eyes and articulate dispatch, which were instrumental in conveying a wide range of emotions. Roddy McDowall was intelligent and witty and often brought sharp intellect and a keen sense of humor to his roles, delivered with impeccable timing. McDowall was praised for his ability to mask feelings and convey restraint, even as a child actor. As an adult performer, he was characterized as “unpredictable,” which suggested a dynamic and varied approach to his roles. Critics noted his reliability as an actor, describing him as “always dependable.”

McDowall’s performances were subtle and nuanced: his approach to acting was all about restraint and introspection rather than over-the-top dramatics, at least in his earliest work. His acting was emotionally authentic, bringing a palpable sincerity to his characters and allowing audiences to connect with them on a profound level. Even in roles like Planet of the Apes, navigating the constraints of elaborate makeup, he transformed physical limitations into artistic opportunities. His performance transcended mere mimicry, embodying the character through a masterful blend of precise gestures and subtle nuances. Playing Cornelius in the Planet of the Apes series, he masterfully balanced intelligence, empathy, and subtle humor.

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MonsterGirl’s 150 Days of Classic Horror #28 The Changeling 1980 & Ghost Story 1981

THE CHANGELING 1980

“[A] visually classy chiller… aided by stunning film locations in Seattle and
Vancouver, this one’s more attractive than most.” — Edwin Miller, Seventeen,
April 1980, page 75.

“The most noteworthy traditional ghost movie of the last fifteen years or so … a chilling and undeservedly obscure film … a first-rate Gothic gooseflesher, with excellent performances…” — Bruce Lanier Wright, Night Walkers: Gothic Horror Movies, The Modern Era, Taylor Publishing Company, 1995, page 158.

“[A] classy picture made by people with some sense of suspense, and performed by people with a cast headed by two of the best – George C. Scott and Melvyn Douglas…. This is not a movie with ghosts jumping at you to elicit fraudulent screams. This is creepy, stealthy suspense.” – Gene Shalit, The Ladies Home Journal, July 1980, pages 24, 28.

According to Roger Ebert’s review of The Changeling, “This…is a scary movie with taste.”

https://thelastdrivein.com/2016/01/31/the-changeling-1980-how-did-you-die-joseph-did-you-die-in-this-house-why-do-you-remain/

The Changeling is a stylish and exquisitely envisioned 1980 Canadian supernatural horror film directed by Peter Medak. It stars George C. Scott, Trish Van Devere, and Melvyn Douglas. I saw this atmospheric and, at times, jarring ghost story during its theatrical release. Like the pounding John Russell hears at night, my heart almost jumped out of my chest, and still does, actually, during the scene with the menacing wheelchair hunting Trish Van Devere throughout the winding hallway, chases her down the stairs and, ultimately, crashes into her.

The Changeling is perhaps one of the most effectively creepy ghost stories. This is partly due to John Coquillon’s edgy and intensely focused cinematography and production designer Trevor Williams, who helps create the oppressive and isolating environment.

The movie also showcases a sentimental piano score, including the music box melody written by Howard Blake, which adds to the moody atmosphere.

Director Medak and cinematographer Coquillon employ a masterful technique of fluid, low-angle tracking shots that serpentine through the mansion’s expansive rooms and corridors. This approach creates an ethereal perspective, as if the audience embodies the restless spirit itself, observing the world from its incorporeal vantage point. Such camera work not only heightens the sense of supernatural presence but also accentuates John Russell’s isolation within the sprawling, haunted domain.

In a particularly striking composition, the film utilizes a high-angle shot that cascades down the grand staircase, diminishing George C. Scott’s normally commanding presence. This visual strategy inverts the actor’s typical on-screen authority, rendering him small and exposed against the mansion’s imposing architecture. The result is a palpable sense of vulnerability, underscoring the powerlessness of even the most formidable individual when confronted with otherworldly forces.

The film follows the lonely John Russell (Scott), a grief-stricken composer who moves to Seattle after losing his wife and daughter in a tragic accident. His pain acts as a conduit for the supernatural events that follow. Somehow, the personal events of John’s life and the specter of the little boy who is drawn to him are inextricably connected. His fate acts as a whisper of revelation that beckons John from the depths of his grief-induced isolation, offering a renewed sense of purpose that illuminates his path forward.

After John Russell breaks open an old storeroom, he uncovers a secret stairway that leads to a creepy space that begins to reveal the horrible history of the house and its ghostly inhabitant, the dark secret of a little boy’s cruel death, and the terrible truth about prominent senator Carmichael’s (Melvyn Douglas) origins. John rents a sprawling, imposing mansion that hasn’t been occupied in over a decade from Claire Norman (Van Devere Scott’s real wife), an agent of a local historical society. Soon after moving in, he experiences unexplained phenomena: Loud banging every morning, water taps turning on by themselves, a red stained glass window shattering, and the apparition of a drowned boy in a bathtub. John discovers a hidden attic room containing a child’s belongings and a music box that plays a tune he has just composed; it is not a coincidence.

These events lead him to investigate the house’s history, uncovering a dark secret involving Senator Joseph Carmichael. In one of the powerful scenes of the film, a medium conducts a séance, trying to discover the identity of the ghost, revealing the tortured spirit of a murdered boy named Joseph—the little boy who drowned in the tub.

One of the most chilling scenes involves Joseph’s cobweb-covered wheelchair appearing at the top of the stairs, creaking back and forth on its own, and chasing Van Devere down the great steps of the house. John witnesses the apparition of the drowned boy Joseph in the bathtub. The desperate pounding on the tub’s sides unleashes a thunderous, haunting cadence that echoes through the silence; the aural torment is akin to the pounding in Robert Wise’s The Haunting 1963. There is also disembodied crying, much like Shirley Jackson’s ghost story. John also hears the ghost’s voice on a recording, revealing how the boy died.

There’s also a frightening moment when his dead daughter’s little red rubber ball slowly bounces down the grand stairway. The unsettled John flees, frantically casting the spectral ball off the bridge into the abyss of the churning sea below. But when he returns home, the veil between worlds proves permeable; the sea-wet ball materializes once more, slowly bouncing down the staircase with an otherworldly persistence. This stunning, haunting image elegantly sums up the tenuous threshold separating the physical realm from the world of the dead and the liminal space where the laws of nature bend to accommodate the unfinished business of restless spirits. Something so simple can be so terrifying. The ball was seen in the beginning in John’s apartment in New York while he was packing up his family’s things and getting ready for his move to Seattle.

The Changeling received positive critical reviews and was an early Canadian-produced film to achieve major international success. It won eight inaugural Genie Awards, including Best Motion Picture, and was nominated for two Saturn Awards. The film is considered a cult classic and one of the most influential Canadian films ever.

The movie’s strength lies in its effective blend of traditional haunted house elements with a conspiracy thriller, creating a unique and compelling narrative. Its subtle approach to horror, relying more on atmosphere and psychological tension than graphic violence, has contributed to its enduring appeal among us horror fans.

GHOST STORY 1981

Ghost Story (1981), directed by John Irvin and based on Peter Straub’s novel, is a chilling supernatural thriller that intertwines past and present, guilt and revenge. The film boasts an impressive cast of Hollywood veterans in their twilight years, including Fred Astaire, Melvyn Douglas, Douglas Fairbanks Jr., and John Houseman, alongside younger talents like Craig Wasson and Alice Krige as the mysterious beauty who comes into their lives and creates a current of supernatural dread.

Set in a snow-covered New England town, the story follows four elderly men who form the Chowder Society, gathering regularly to share ghost stories. Their comfortable routine is shattered when one member’s son dies mysteriously, triggering a series of supernatural events that force them to confront a dark secret from their youth. Through haunting flashbacks, we learn of their encounter with the enigmatic Eva Galli, whose death they’ve concealed for decades.

As the vengeful spirit returns to exact her revenge, the film builds tension through Jack Cardiff’s atmospheric cinematography, which masterfully captures both the eerie present and the golden-hued past. Jack Cardiff’s most influential cinematography works include A Matter of Life and Death (1946), Black Narcissus (1947), and The Red Shoes (1948). These three films, directed by Powell and Pressburger, established Cardiff as a legendary cinematographer. His work on Black Narcissus earned him an Academy Award for Best Color Cinematography.

From shocking deaths to spectral appearances on snowy bridges, Ghost Story is one hell of a horror film that culminates in a climactic confrontation at Eva’s decaying house and her excruciating death.

The narrative structure of Ghost Story plays a crucial role in creating its eerie and suspenseful atmosphere. The film employs a non-linear storytelling approach, interweaving past and present events to gradually reveal the dark secret that haunts the protagonists. The dual timeline structure, the present focusing on the members of the Chowder Society and flashbacks to their youth, reveals their dark secret connected to the enigmatic Eva Galli.

The film’s strength lies in exploring how past sins haunt the present, both literally and figuratively, creating a ghost story that is as much about psychological torment as it is about supernatural scares.

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MonsterGirl’s 150 Days of Classic Horror #27 The Car (1977)

THE CAR 1977

There’s a streak of guilty pleasure for me with The Car, a 1977 American horror film directed by Elliot Silverstein and written by Michael Butler, Dennis Shryack, and Lane Slate. This supernatural thriller blends elements of horror and action, and I think it is one of the more creative and unique entries in the genre that embraces the killer-vehicle.

Set in a small desert town in Utah, a mysterious black car begins terrorizing the residents. The vehicle, seemingly possessed and driverless, goes on a murderous rampage, killing cyclists, pedestrians, and cops. The story follows Chief Deputy Wade Parent (James Brolin) as he attempts to stop the demonic automobile and protect his community. Kathleen Lloyd plays Lauren Humphries, Wade’s girlfriend and a local teacher, character actor John Marley plays Sheriff Everett Peck, Ronny Cox plays Deputy Luke Johnson, and R. G. Armstrong plays the irascible Amos Clemens.

The car itself is a central character designed by George Barris, who is known for creating iconic vehicles like the Batmobile. The film features innovative sound design, with Dennis C. Salcedo providing the car’s menacing sound effects. The Car 1977 also incorporates religious themes, as the black metal fiend cannot enter consecrated ground like the local cemetery.

The film is often compared to Steven Spielberg’s Jaws (1975), with some fans dubbing it “Jaws on Wheels.” Its premise of an unstoppable, supernatural force terrorizing a small town draws parallels to other horror classics of the era. Despite its sometimes ludicrous premise, The Car is so much fun to just hop inside the backseat to take the ride for its suspenseful elements, the excellent vehicle design, and the very ominous presence of its titular non-passenger driving antagonist. The film also possesses some genuinely jarring moments, not only for their intensity but also for their unexpectedness.

A few of the victims include hitchhiker John Rubenstein, who gets taken out early on as he plays his French Horn through the sleepy town. He is remembered for his Tony Award-winning performance as James Leeds in Children of a Lesser God on Broadway in 1980 and for creating the title role in the original Broadway production of Pippin in 1972, for which he received a Theatre World Award. Another nail-biting scene is the pair of victims, the two cyclists who get pushed off a very high bridge when the car rams into them, forcing them over the guardrails and onto the rocks below.

One of the most notable scenes is when Lauren Humphries (Kathleen Lloyd) taunts the car’s unseen driver, calling it a “big ugly car” and daring the driver to get out. As Lauren shows her gutsy nerve, the car’s supernatural nature reacts angrily to her insults by driving in circles and revving its engine.

During the scene where the car hesitates to enter a cemetery, it is suggestive of the dichotomy of Christian good vs. evil, Heaven & Hell, illustrating that it is repelled by consecrated ground. This moment is pretty slick because it adds a layer of mysticism to the story, implying that the car is not just a vehicle but a malevolent entity with certain limitations.

The car threatens a local school parade, endangering the lives of the children. This scene is particularly unsettling due to the vulnerability of the victims and the car’s relentless pursuit, creating a sense of urgency and fear amongst the trapped townspeople. The great final confrontation, where Chief Wade Parent and the townsfolk take a stand against the car, is worth the wait. It’s one of my favorite moments. In this funhouse ride – the pyrotechnic spectacle as our demonic four-wheeled horn-honking menace, terrorizing the town like a mechanical bull in a china shop, finally meets its match in a carefully orchestrated trap. As the car plunges off the cliff, it transforms from a road-raging, black, snarling metal beast into a magnificent fireball, as if the gates of automotive hell had suddenly opened up. The explosion is a moment of vehicular Valhalla. Rising from the inferno like a demonic soufflé, a face materializes in the smoke and flames. It’s as if the car’s evil spirit makes one last appearance, leaving with its nefarious sentiment- I’ll see you in your traffic nightmares!

This ghostly visage looks like a cross between a Halloween mask, a particularly furious cloud formation, and a fiery farewell from an evil killer car. It’s a reminder always to check your rearview mirror!

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MonsterGirl’s 150 Days of Classic Horror #26 The Beast With Five Fingers 1946

THE BEAST WITH FIVE FINGERS 1946

The Beast with Five Fingers is a 1946 American mystery-horror film directed by Robert Florey (Murders in the Rue Morgue 1932), who was very fluent in television of the 1950s and ’60s, including Boris Karloff’s Thriller and Alfred Hitchcock Presents. It is based on the 1919 short story of the same name by W. F. Harvey, which plays into the disembodied hand trope. The screenplay was written by Curt Siodmak, known for his work on other horror classics like The Wolf Man (1941) and I Walked with a Zombie (1943).

The film stars Robert Alda, Andrea King, Victor Francen, and Peter Lorre. It tells the story of a retired concert pianist, Francis Ingram (Francen), who lives in a large manor house in turn-of-the-century Italy. After Ingram’s mysterious death, strange events begin to occur, centered around his seemingly animated, disembodied left hand.

The Very Thought of You: Andrea King in 4 Fabulous Unsung Film Noir Gems!

The plot revolves around the reading of Ingram’s will, which leaves everything to his nurse, Julie Holden (King), much to the dismay of his relatives. As tensions rise, a series of murders occur, apparently committed by Ingram’s severed hand. The film builds suspense through a combination of psychological horror and supernatural elements.

Peter Lorre, as usual, delivers a standout performance as Hilary Cummins, Ingram’s secretary and astrologist, who becomes increasingly unhinged as the story progresses. The film’s score was composed by Max Steiner, adding to its eerie atmosphere. Steiner, “the father of film music,” composed scores for some of the most iconic and epic Hollywood films of the 20th century. Here’s a summary of his most notable works: King Kong 1933, Gone With the Wind 1939, Casablanca, and Now, Voyager 1942. Over his career, Steiner composed more than 300 film scores and was nominated for 24 Academy Awards, winning three.

The Beast with Five Fingers was Warner Bros.’s only foray into the horror genre in the 1940s and marked Peter Lorre’s last film with the studio. The movie is notable for its innovative special effects, which bring the disembodied hand to life through various techniques. Warner Bros. pianist Victor Aller performs the piano pieces featured in the film, whose hand is shown playing throughout the movie.

Despite initial reluctance from the cast due to concerns about the film’s title sounding like a “campy B-Movie,” the actors were eventually won over by the fascinating script. The production was not without its lighter moments, as Peter Lorre was known for playing practical jokes on set, once causing filming to be canceled for a day due to his antics. Sara Karloff shared with me that Lorre enjoyed a good practical joke with his other colleagues, her father Boris, and other co-star Vincent Price on the set of The Raven 1963.

Over time, The Beast with Five Fingers has grown in popularity and is now considered a classic of its genre. It even inspired Charles Addams’s creation of the character Thing in The Addams Family. While it may not be as frightening by today’s standards, the film remains a chilling and memorable entry in the horror genre of the 1940s.

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MonsterGirl’s 150 Days of Classic Horror #24 Beast in the Cellar 1970 & The Shuttered Room 1967

SPOILER ALERT!

BEAST IN THE CELLAR 1970

The Beast in the Cellar (1971) is a British horror film directed by James Kelly, starring two inimitable British actors, Beryl Reid as Ellie Ballantyne and Flora Robson as Joyce Ballantyne. The film follows two proper elderly sisters living near a rural army base in Lancashire, where soldiers are being mysteriously murdered.

In the delightfully dreary The Beast in the Cellar (1971), two spinster sisters, Ellie (Beryl Reid) and Joyce (Flora Robson), are living their best lives in a rural English cottage, complete with a secret ingredient that’s not exactly listed in the local cookbook: their deranged brother Steven (Dafydd Havard), who’s been locked in the cellar for decades.

The story revolves around the Ballantyne sisters’ dark secret: their brother Steven, whom they’ve kept locked in their cellar for nearly 30 years in order to keep him from joining the war effort. After their father returned from World War I traumatized and violent, the sisters decided to protect Steven from being drafted into World War II by drugging and imprisoning him in the cellar until he evolved into a feral animal.

As the murders continue, the sisters realize that Steven has escaped through a tunnel he dug and is responsible for the killings plaguing the village. His years of confinement and abuse have left him with a hatred for uniformed soldiers.

Through the plodding and cloyingly oppressive atmosphere, the film builds tension as the sisters struggle to conceal their secrets and deal with the consequences of what they have done.

While The Beast in the Cellar attempts to blend psychological horror with social commentary on the effects of war, it received mixed reviews. Critics noted its slow pace and lack of traditional horror elements but praised the performances of Reid and Robson, who never disappoint. The film has since gained a cult following for its unique premise and exploration of family secrets and the long-term consequences of misguided protection.

THE SHUTTERED ROOM 1967

The Shuttered Room (1967), directed by David Greene, marked Greene’s feature-film debut after directing episodes of The Twilight Zone and Playhouse 90. Greene would go on to direct notable films such as the very taught psycho-sexual thriller I Start Counting (1969), starring Jenny Agutter, and Godspell (1973). His television work includes acclaimed projects like Roots (1977), for which he won an Emmy.

This is another British psychological horror film steeped in Gothic atmosphere and folk horror elements. Based on the 1959 short story by August Derleth, written as a “posthumous collaboration” with H.P. Lovecraft, the film loosely draws inspiration from Lovecraftian themes while carving out its own identity. The screenplay was penned by D.B. Ledrov and Nathaniel Tanchuck. Carol Lynley delivers a nuanced performance as the haunted Susannah Kelton, balancing vulnerability with quiet resilience as she confronts both external threats and internal demons.

The film also stars Gig Young as the pragmatic Mike Kelton and Oliver Reed as the menacing Ethan. Reed’s portrayal echoes his earlier work in Joseph Losey’s These Are the Damned (1963).

The insular island community evokes themes of the folk horror elements of superstition and isolation common in folk horror, predating films like The Wicker Man (1973).

The Shuttered Room also stars the wonderful Flora Robson (she would later return to the genre in Beast in the Cellar in 1970), who delivers a memorable performance as the mysterious Aunt Agatha. Robson shines as Aunt Agatha, embodying the archetype of the wise but cryptic elder who knows more than she reveals.

The film includes moody cinematography by Ken Hodges and music by Basil Kirchin, which further enhance the film’s unsettling tone.

The story follows Susannah Kelton (Carol Lynley), a young woman raised in foster care who inherits her childhood home—a decrepit mill on a remote New England island—after her parents’ death.

Accompanied by her husband, Mike (Gig Young), Susannah reluctantly returns to confront her past. The island’s insular and hostile locals, led by her lecherous cousin Ethan (Oliver Reed), warn of a family curse tied to the mill, where an unseen terror lurks in the attic’s shuttered room.

As Susannah grapples with repressed childhood memories of trauma, she becomes the target of both Ethan’s (Reed) violent advances and the mill’s dark secret. The film builds toward a shocking revelation: the “monster” in the attic is Susannah’s deranged sister, Sarah, who has hidden away since birth due to her deformities and homicidal tendencies, which leads to a climactic confrontation.

David Greene’s direction imbues The Shuttered Room with a brooding atmosphere that blends Gothic horror with modern psychological tension. Though set in New England, the film was shot entirely in Norfolk, England, lending an eerie, decayed charm to its rural setting. Greene employs innovative techniques for his time, including point-of-view shots from the “monster,” which later became a hallmark of slasher films.

Ken Hodges’s cinematography captures the desolation of the island and the oppressive gloom of the mill with stark contrasts between light and shadow. The titular shuttered room becomes a visual metaphor for repression—both familial and psychological—while recurring imagery like decaying wood and shattered glass underscores themes of fragility and entrapment.

Basil Kirchin’s score alternates between jaunty jazz motifs and ominous basslines, creating an unsettling juxtaposition that mirrors Susannah’s uneasy return to her roots. This departure from traditional gothic orchestration gives the film a modern edge while maintaining its sense of dread.

The Shuttered Room 1967 explores repression and trauma and how buried secrets—both familial and personal—can fester into destructive forces. Susannah’s repressed memories parallel Sarah’s literal imprisonment.

The Shuttered Room occupies an intriguing position within British horror cinema of the 1960s. While often overshadowed by Hammer Films’ Gothic output during this period, it stands out for its fusion of Gothic tropes with modern psychological horror. Its depiction of rural hostility and repressed trauma aligns it with early folk horror works that would later define the subgenre.

With its decaying millhouse hiding both family secrets and unspeakable horrors, The Shuttered Room weaves a tale where Gothic dread meets up with folk horror unease—making the film a chilling exploration of things lurking behind locked doors.

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MonsterGirl’s 150 Days of Classic Horror #23 The Bird with the Crystal Plumage 1970 & Deep Red 1975

SPOILER ALERT!

THE BIRD WITH THE CRYSTAL PLUMAGE 1970

Bird with the Crystal Plumage 1970 is Dario Argento’s (who also wrote the script) directorial debut. The film is a landmark piece of horror art that revolutionized the Giallo genre and set the stage for Argento’s illustrious career in horror and thriller cinema. The film follows Sam Dalmas (Tony Musante), an American writer living in Rome who witnesses a brutal attack on Monica Ranieri (Eva Renzi) in an art gallery. Trapped between glass doors during the assault, Sam becomes obsessed with solving the case, uncovering clues tied to a macabre painting and a rare bird’s call. His investigation, aided by his girlfriend Julia (Suzy Kendall) and Inspector Morosini (Enrico Maria Salerno), leads to a shocking twist as Bird with the Crystal Plumage delves into themes of trauma, obsession, and the fallibility of perception. Monica, driven by trauma from a past attack, is the true killer, with her husband Alberto (Umberto Raho) as her accomplice.

Heavily influenced by the Maestro of Giallo – Mario Bava, Argento’s film is notable for its opening sequence, which, with its focus on surveillance and photography, sets the tone for the film’s exploration of voyeurism. This theme is further developed through Sam’s obsessive investigation and the killer’s stalking of victims. The film culminates in a climactic confrontation at the gallery, blending psychological intrigue with Argento’s signature suspense-saturated atmosphere.

Vittorio Storaro’s Techniscope cinematography features stark geometric framing, saturated primary colors, and chiaroscuro lighting. The use of amber silhouettes and vivid contrasts heightens the tension and creates a visually striking spectacle. The film established many tropes that would become staples of Giallo, including the amateur sleuth protagonist, the black-gloved killer (seen in Bava’s films), and the blending of mystery and horror.

The Bird with the Crystal Plumage was a commercial and critical success upon release, credited with popularizing the Giallo genre internationally. As far as his legacy, Argento was hailed as “the Italian Hitchcock” and revolutionized horror and thriller cinema through his work, which is characterized by stylized violence, voyeuristic camerawork, and bold color palettes. His work merges operatic set pieces and forges a psychological fault line, where every moment trembles with the promise of seismic collapse.

It launched Argento’s career and influenced filmmakers beyond the Italian horror scene, including Brian De Palma, whose films like Dressed to Kill 1980 and Blow Out 1981 show clear Giallo influences.

Bird with the Crystal Plumage’s success led to Argento’s Animal Trilogy, followed by The Cat o’ Nine Tails (1971) and Four Flies on Grey Velvet (1972). It established Argento’s trademark style of lurid violence, Freudian psychology, and collaborations with renowned artists like composer renowned Italian composer Ennio Morricone.

Morricone is celebrated for his iconic film scores, including those for Sergio Leone’s Westerns. For this film, he infused the score with the Lullaby theme. A hauntingly soft “la-la” vocal melody, performed by Edda Dell’Orso, creates an unsettling sense of innocence and fragility. This theme is used during moments of flirtation or domestic calm, such as scenes between Sam (Tony Musante) and Julia (Suzy Kendall). The lullaby’s ethereal quality contrasts sharply with the film’s violent undertones. Morricone also used atonal improvisation in scenes involving the killer. Morricone employed avant-garde techniques, including dissonant piano notes, free jazz drumming, eerie whispers, and fragmented rhythms, in tracks like “Phrases Without Structure” and used unpredictable sounds—such as muted trumpets, chimes, and distorted guitar swells—to evoke unease and tension.

These semi-improvised pieces mirror the chaotic psychology of the killer and heighten suspense during stalking sequences. The Bird with the Crystal Plumage was pivotal in shaping the soundscape of Giallo cinema. His innovative use of unconventional instrumentation—like vibraphones, harpsichords, and vocal sighs—created an auditory experience that was both unsettling and seductive. The two words that sum up Argento’s films.

DEEP RED (PROFONDO ROSSO) 1975

Dario Argento’s Deep Red (Profondo Rosso) is a masterclass in Giallo filmmaking, which blends the hallmark of the genre with its psychological tension, graphic violence, and stunning visual artistry with the use of vibrant colors and avant-garde camera angles.

The story follows Marcus Daly (David Hemmings), an English jazz pianist living in Rome, who becomes embroiled in a murder investigation after witnessing the brutal killing of psychic medium Helga Ulmann (Macha Méril). Helga had publicly revealed the presence of a murderer during a séance shortly before her death. Obsessed with uncovering the killer’s identity, Marcus teams up with journalist Gianna Brezzi (Daria Nicolodi), and their investigation leads them into a labyrinth of secrets, childhood trauma, and repressed memories. The film is structured around Marcus’s unraveling of the mystery, with each clue bringing him closer to the truth while placing him in increasing danger.

Argento masterfully uses misdirection and visual cues to toy with our perception. A key moment early in the film—when Marcus glimpses something significant in Helga’s apartment but cannot recall what it is—sets up the film’s central theme: once again, much like Bird with the Crystal Plumage – the fallibility of memory.

This idea is reinforced throughout the narrative as Marcus pieces together fragments of evidence, culminating in a shocking twist that reveals the killer to be Carlo’s (Gabriele Lavia) mother, Marta (Clara Calamai), who has been driven to murder by her psychological trauma.

Visually, Deep Red is one of Argento’s most striking films. Collaborating with cinematographer Luigi Kuveiller (Investigation of a Citizen Above Suspicion), Argento creates a world drenched in vivid colors—most notably red—to heighten tension and evoke unease.

The use of color is not merely aesthetic but thematic; red symbolizes both violence and hidden truths that bleed to the surface as Marcus delves deeper into the mystery.

Argento also employs fluid and dynamic camerawork to immerse viewers in the narrative. Long tracking shots follow characters through eerie locations, such as abandoned mansions and shadowy corridors, while extreme close-ups linger on seemingly innocuous objects that later become significant clues.

Using art as a clue — like many Giallo films, Deep Red uses art as an integral part of its mystery. A macabre painting is vital to identifying the killer, reinforcing Argento’s fascination with how art reflects hidden truths.

The killer’s perspective is frequently shown through voyeuristic point-of-view shots, creating a sense of dread as the audience becomes complicit in their acts. Also, one of Argento’s most iconic techniques is his use of reflective surfaces—mirrors, glass shards, and water—which distort reality and hint at hidden layers within the story. For instance, Marcus’s inability to recognize what he saw in Helga’s apartment mirrors his struggle to confront repressed truths about the murders.

At its core, Deep Red explores how memory and perception shape our understanding of reality. Marcus’s inability to recall what he saw at Helga’s murder scene reflects both his personal struggle and humanity’s broader difficulty in confronting uncomfortable truths.

Deep Red is an immersion in childhood trauma — The film delves into how past events shape present behavior. The killer’s motive is rooted in a traumatic incident from Carlo’s childhood—a moment when he witnessed his mother murdering his father. This theme is visualized through recurring images of children’s drawings and dolls, which take on sinister connotations.

The score for Deep Red, composed by progressive rock band Goblin (one of my favorite scores was their work, which infused Suspiria 1977 with a dramatically intense soundscape ), marked their first collaboration with Argento and became one of the most iconic elements of the film. The music blends haunting melodies with pulsating rhythms and eerie synthesizers, creating an atmosphere that oscillates between hypnotic beauty and jarring terror. Tracks like “Profondo Rosso” build suspense with their relentless basslines and dissonant keyboards, perfectly complementing Argento’s visual style.

The score actively drives the narrative forward—for example, Goblin’s music crescendos during moments of revelation or violence. Combining avant-garde rock and classical influences gives Deep Red yet another unique soundscape that has been widely imitated but rarely matched.

Daria Nicolodi, who plays Gianna Brezzi, introduces a strong female character who challenges traditional gender roles. Gianna is independent and assertive and often outshines Marcus in her investigative skills—though their playful banter occasionally highlights Marcus’s discomfort with her modernity.

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MonsterGirl’s 150 Days of Classic Horror #22 The Brotherhood of Satan 1971

THE BROTHERHOOD OF SATAN 1971

The Brotherhood of Satan (1971) is perhaps one of the most striking installments of the ’70s occult films, not just of that decade but of any film within its iteration of cinematic narratives that delve into the dark allure of devil worship, which often intersect with the timeless quest for eternal youth, creating a fascinating dichotomy between the pursuit of immortality and the surrender to malevolent forces.

It is a supernatural horror film directed by Bernard McEveety, who is known for his work on various television series. Strother Martin, as Dr. Duncan, gives a tour de force as a terrifying High Priest who wages war on old age by using the dark arts to take possession of children’s bodies and use them as the vessels of his coven’s souls. It’s a depraved notion and not without impact on the screen. McEveety does it with a very unpretentious stroke of low-budget/high art that comes across as though, on the surface, surreal; it disturbs at our visceral core. That’s why I love ’70s horror!

L.Q. Jones stars as Sheriff Pete, Charles Bateman plays Ben Holden, Ahna Capri is Nicky, and Charles Robinson plays the ill-fated Father Jack.

The Brotherhood of Satan envelops us in a quietly malignant atmosphere where rural serenity morphs into claustrophobic menace and panic. Set in the American Southwest, the story follows Ben Holden, a widower traveling with his young daughter K.T. and girlfriend Nicky.

They stumble upon a small California community inexplicably plagued by mysterious deaths and gripped by terror and the disappearances of children. Not only are the children missing, but no one, including the newly arrived Ben Holden, his daughter, or his girlfriend, can leave the boundaries of the town, not unlike others who attempted before and wound up as bloody, mangled victims.

Unbeknownst to them, a coven of elderly Satanists, led by Duncan, is orchestrating these events in a bid for immortality by transferring their souls into the bodies of the kidnapped children.

The film blends elements of small-town paranoia, occult horror, and psychological tension. It features inventive death scenes and a surreal atmosphere, particularly in scenes involving the children and their toys. The narrative builds to a climactic ritual where the line between reality and supernatural horror blurs.

L.Q. Jones, who also produced the film alongside Alvy Moore, initially titled it “Come In, Children” ( This is the title of my extended feature coming soon. If I truly had a gun to my head, The Brotherhood of Satan would wind up on my top twenty of all-time classic horror films), preferring this over the eventual title. Jones described the film as different from typical monster pictures, stating, “We’ve got a little blood in it—to appease the popcorn rattlers—but there are no silver bullets or crosses or stakes. The ending is deliberately up in the air. We don’t explain it; we just lay it out.”

The film’s power lies in its methodical unraveling, the onslaught of eerie silences, intrusive rituals, and the chillingly composed senior citizens whose gentle exteriors disguise their unfathomable evil. McEveety masterfully exploits the emptiness of the landscape and the suffocating confines of the town, generating palpable dread from the smallest details: sidelong glances, cryptic meetings, the relentless sound of a music box. As the protagonists are drawn deeper into the web of occult conspiracy, all innocence is subsumed, reason crumbles, and the film’s story unspools not merely as a battle against supernatural horror but as a profound meditation on paranoia, helplessness, and the relentless intrusion of darkness into ordinary life. The Brotherhood of Satan is a grimly poetic, psychologically unsettling, and unshakable in its haunting vision.

While not a blockbuster hit, The Brotherhood of Satan has gained a cult following for its unique approach to Satanic themes and its atmospheric small-town setting. It stands as a notable entry in the 1970s occult horror genre, offering a more cerebral and ambiguous take on devil worship than many of its contemporaries.

And coming very soon, prepare for me to fully descend into the choking silence and ritualistic shadow of The Brotherhood of Satan, where isolation is more than a mood, it’s a suffocating presence, and every invocation carries the weight of a malevolent power driven by a lust for immortality. The unnerving calm of small-town normalcy buckles under the pressure of the occult, as innocence dissolves, and ordinary lives become pawns on a ceremonial altar of fear.